


Unmasked

by objectlesson



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, M/M, Master/Servant, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27570754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: The thing about Arthur Pendragon is that heisa gentleman, masquerading as a rake masquerading as a gentleman. Underneath all the layers, there is something genuinely good. And that--thatis why Merlin loves him.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 213





	Unmasked

**Author's Note:**

> Ive watched two seasons of this show in like four days and I love it so much its sooooo cheesy and bad and funny and cute and Arthur and Merlin are obviously in love. Im really endeared by the way Merlin is pining so far --he knows Arthur will eventually come around because he knows they're destined to be together, so in the meantime he wants more, but is content to sort of chill while Arthur figures out his shit. It's very cute and unlike anything I've ever shipped before. This little story is sort of a meditation of that.

“You know,” Arthur says, voice only moderately strained considering the circumstances, which include Merlin on his stomach, throat full, between the splay of powerful, blonde dusted thighs. “This arrangement _does_ have its merits. It’s not at all the same as it is with chambermaids—there’s no _pretense._ And I don’t feel bad fucking _your_ face until you cry. I suspect you even like it.” 

He’s right. Merlin does like it. He won’t say so, though, because he already feels like Arthur sees too much of him, all his spun-gold insides spilling out and glinting too bright in the sun. Instead of deigning to answer Arthur he pulls off, eyes watering, and spits a thick mouthful of saliva onto his cock, which twitches red and lovely on the flat plane of his stomach. “You’re saying you prefer my mouth to those of the chambermaids?” He teases, smiling with swollen lips . 

Arthur looks down at him through his sweat-clotted lashes. His hair is dark with perspiration and mussed across his brow, which is flushed, but not half as much as the violent red of his cheeks. He’s awful, and he’s perfect, and as much as Merlin wishes he didn’t, he loves him so powerfully it feels like a cold dark sea, ever swallowing him up and tugging at his ankles with the force of a storm riptide. “I don’t _prefer_ it,” he says then, frowning and making a fist in Merlin’s hair and dragging him back. “I’m only saying it’s somewhat of an— _ah—_ a relief. To not have to pretend to be a gentleman. Don’t stop, that’s very good.”

Merlin smiles around the girth of Arthur’s cock, and takes it deeper, so the crown hits the back of his throat with a satisfying ache. He knows none of this is _real,_ honest to god praise, but the thing about Arthur Pendragon is that he _is_ a gentleman, masquerading as a rake masquerading as a gentleman. Underneath all the layers, there is something genuinely good. And that-- _that_ is why Merlin loves him. That is the truth that thuds like a heartbeat against the underside of his tongue. It’s what he uses to guide himself home to his destiny, how he reminds himself that no matter what, Arthur is his, and he is Arthur’s, and that is what they are meant to be perhaps not now, but well into forever. 

Several minutes later, Arthur has ceased to be coherent at all. He’s moaning, crushing Merlin’s shoulders between the power of his thighs, twisting this way and that upon his sheets so that Merlin has to pin him by the hips to keep him steady enough to suck. “ _Fucking_ hell _._ Why is that—why are you so _good?”_ Arthur chokes as he reaches down to scratch up and down Merlin’s shoulders, surely hard enough to leave marks. “It is a _skill_ you’ve acquired, like, do you have experience serving— _oh fuck.”_

And then Arthur spills, and Merlin’s mouth is too full to answer. He supposes it’s better this way: he has a horrible habit of feeling compelled to always tell Arthur the truth, which this time is something along the lines of _I’m not terribly practiced, I’m just in love with you, and therefore quite committed to the task._ Arthur holds him in place as he twitches and comes down from the high or orgasm, and then finally, he lets him go so that he may sputter and catch his breath, drool on his chin.

Merlin is hard from the taste and feel of Arthur’s cock, but he will deal with that later, in the privacy of his own room. He wills it away and heaves himself up the bed and fits himself to Arthur’s side, because he’s usually too wrung out from coming to bother pushing Merlin away in these moments, and it’s nice to lie close to him, to pretend they are already the prophecized future versions of themselves. Sure enough, he not only allows the proximity, but buries his nose in Merlin’s hair and sighs, eyes fluttering shut. Merlin thinks he might fall asleep there, but instead he purses his lips after a few minutes and needles a finger between Merlin’s ribs. “Really though,” he asks. “Have you done this with other men?” 

Merlin frowns into his armpit. “What does it matter?” 

“It matters to me because it _does_ ,” Arthur says petulantly, suddenly recovering his strength enough to roll Merlin away from his body and peer down at him with narrowed eyes. They are bright, and he looks younger than he is in this moment—not a king to be, but a boy. It makes Merlin squirm. “I order you to tell me.” 

Sighing, Merlin casts his gaze up to the ceiling, lip between his teeth. “There was—a friend in Ealdor. Will. We sometimes—“

But before he can finish, Arthur silences Merlin with a punishing pinch to the tender skin of his throat, making him yelp. “Never mind, I take it back, I don't want to know about your filthy trysts with some wretched peasant boy.” 

Merlin snorts. “You _asked.”_

 _“Well._ I revoke the inquiry.”

Upon studying his face, Merlin realizes that Arthur is frowning. _Pouting_ , even. There’s a surge of feeling in his chest, like dry kindling suddenly catching flame and searing bright and white-hot as he examines the furrow in his brow. He loves these glimpses—the moments he can see Arthur really does care. Or, if he does not now, he will eventually, and they will be as they are meant to be. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” He blurts after a few moments of prudent gazing, delighted. 

Arthur, who is a poor liar and an even poorer sport, immediately shifts to plant his feet against Merlin’s thigh and kick him out of bed. Merlin was braced for it, so he somersaults somewhat gracefully, landing in a tangled pile of sheets on the floor, biting back laughter. “I am absolutely _not_ jealous,” Arthur snaps at him. “Bring me a rag, will you? I’m _covered_ in your spit and it's _vile.”_

Merlin does as he’s told, and keeps his private smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, which is still raw at the corners, from joy rather than practice. The thing about Arthur Pendragon is that he _is_ a gentleman, masquerading as a rake masquerading as a gentleman, but one day, he will strip the mask and become the real thing. And that--that is why Merlin loves him. 


End file.
